Page 5 of Hexes and Exes

I glare at the man who has had so little to do with my existence in the world. He’s got me, and he knows it. The threats to my employees, the fact that at an early age we’re all made to swear our loyalty to the coven. This is all about control, though. My father gets off on his own superiority.

I hold up my hands in surrender. “You win, Father. It must be exhausting being so honorable.” I laugh humorlessly. “What’s it like existing under the boot of the coven? Do they tell you when you can take a shit? Are you allowed to wipe your own ass?”

Vincent straightens his suit coat. “It’s no wonder your stepmother can’t stand the sight of you. Your crassness knows no bounds.”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s it and not because I’m a reminder that you fucked another woman while she was pregnant with your other son. You think she’d be used to that by now. How many other socialites have you dicked down over the years?”

My father’s jaw gets tighter as his eyes narrow to slits. “You will plan the most extravagant party this coven has ever seen. You will personally make sure every coven member is present. I will hold you accountable for any failure.” With those parting words, my father stomps out of my office, the door slamming behind him.

With a sigh, I move around the desk to sit in my recently vacated chair. No one in their right mind would come to me to plan a party. I hope whoever he sends knows what the fuck they’re doing.

There’s a stack of mail and a small package sitting on my desk. My hands are steady as I slice open the box. My curse is still cloaking most of my feelings beyond loathing, but I nearly choke when I look inside.

It’s a doll. One of those wide-eyed ones that I told Ava reminded me of her. A note lays on top of the thing, staring up at me. I unfold it and squint at the power, trying to interpret the horrible handwriting.

I know it’s not a sex doll, and I’m sure you already have this one in your collection, but you wouldn’t shut up about it. Try not to snuggle it to death at night. XXOO, Ava.

A huff of laughter escapes before I can hold it back. I press my lips together and glare down at the doll. Really?

The darkness pressing down on my body lightens just a little. This fucking woman is a menace.

3

AVA

“What the hell do you do with a music degree?” My father’s snarled words haunt me every day I walk into work.

When I went to college, I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life. I enjoy music and have a way I can infuse my empathic magic into song. That’s how I ended up with a music degree. After graduation, I reluctantly took a job at my father’s encouragement with the city manager. It was supposed to be a temporary thing. Five years later, and I’m still working as an administrative assistant for one of the biggest dickheads in Mystic Hollows. And that’s saying something because he has some stiff competition.

Barty McDonald doesn’t know how to use email. He’s the city manager and he doesn’t text. For fuck’s sake. Each morning, my first task is to print out every email in his inbox. All of them, including the stupid spammy one. Because Barty doesn’t trust my judgment. What if I accidentally labeled something as spamwhen it’s incredibly important. Once, he asked me to print out an MP4. A fucking video. When I tried to explain it to him, he called me an aggressive know-it-all and wouldn’t let me get another word out.

I spent an entire day screenshotting the video and then printed off a five-hundred-page document. Barty gaped at it, turned beet red and then never commented on it again.

“I really need to quit my job,” I mumble as I leave the coffee shop. The only problem is that the stupid interview process takes so long that by the time I might get a call back, the hiring manager has already forgotten who I am. At this stage of my curse, it takes a little over a week for someone to forget me. For people who have known me my whole life, like my parents, they will remember me after some prompting and reminders. Eventually, even that won’t work. For a stranger looking to hire new staff, I won’t even be a blip in their memory once I’m out of their sight for a week.

Fucking curse.

The city manager’s office is only a few doors down from the coffee shop. It’s near the Lumen coven house and the Briar Hollows bridge. Even though the city official who set up the offices isn’t magical, the city manager is a witch. When he took the position ten or so years ago, the Tenebris coven threw a fit that a Lumen witch became city manager. That is politics I stay the fuck away from. And apparently it doesn’t matter now anyway.

I stop and look down at the frozen river. Legend has it that if you toss in a coin and make a wish, the Briar Witch will grant it. It’s never worked for me.

Just a few months ago, the night I walked in on my ex fucking someone else on our bed, I’d wished for true love. What a joke. I’m going to die alone. Even if I met the love of my life, theywon’t even remember me if I go on vacation for a week without them.

I turn away from the river and fantasies that will never come true. Time to head into work.

“You’re late,” Barty barks at me the second I walk into the office.

My boss is intimidating for more than one reason. He’s loud, aggressive, belittling, and he’s a big dude. I’m only five-four, so he towers over me at six feet and change. He favors short-sleeved button-down shirts that stretch tight over his belly, testing the strength of his buttons on the daily. He’s the kind of muscular that hides under layers of fat. I have no doubt he could easily beat the shit out of someone, but he’d be wheezing the whole time. His hair turned prematurely gray at an early age and his face is oddly smooth. All combined, he’s a little creepy.

Barty’s office is in the back, which includes a couch with stains of a questionable nature. The thought of Barty naked makes me vomit a little in my mouth, so I try to avoid looking at the piece of furniture. The front area where I work has a utilitarian metal desk, plastic curtains that clatter together with the faintest breeze, and a sad plant that’s in its final throes of death. I keep bringing new ones into the office, but I can’t keep them alive for the life of me.

I peer up at the slightly crooked clock hanging on the beige wall. It’s not even eight yet. My hours shift depending on Barty’s mood and his own habits.

“Sorry.” I hang my coat on the back of my chair and log onto my computer.

Barty makes a disgusted sound, and I know it’s directed toward my outfit. Fun fact, I used to dress cute for work. I’d wear skirts and heels, dresses that could transition from day to night. I’d curl my hair every morning and carefully apply my make-up. Then Barty, who is the same age as my father, and has eyebrowswith more hair than some men have on their heads, started commenting on how appealing I looked. I freaked the fuck out.

Today’s ensemble includes a frumpy brown sweater and a pair of wide-leg pants. I’m still wearing my snow boots because I refuse to stomp around in sub-zero temperatures and traverse snow-covered sidewalks in a pair of dress shoes.

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